


Foible

by MonkeyBard



Series: Holiday Handful - Five Fics for the Festive Season [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt fic for the holiday season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foible

**Author's Note:**

> Original post: 18 Dec 2011  
> Prompt from methylviolet10b: Amanuensis, gingerbread, **foible** , turgid, solecistic. Use as many or as few of those as inspires you, in one fic or many. Double giggle points if you work in the original phrase behind the meaning of amanuensis, "slave at hand."

John did not hate American tourists. Sure, he complained about them on occasion. Who didn't? But these were the sort of American tourists who gave the whole lot of them a bad reputation. They weren't deliberately rude or anything; they were just… Well…

John tried to be patient with the woman as he explained why the tube she and her husband had taken from Oxford Circus had landed them at Charing Cross instead of Paddington (The couple had caught the right tube, but going the wrong direction.), and all the while wished that he'd kept walking and pretended not to speak English when the couple had asked for directions.

"We're from Wisconsin. We're here for Christmas, doncha know," the woman practically shouted at him. (They were the sort who spoke overloud to anyone with what they deemed to be a foreign accent, which apparently included Brits on their home soil.) "And I really want to see the big Paddington Bear that I heard they have displayed at Paddington Station," she explained, although John hadn't asked.

She seemed to expect a response of some sort, so he said, "Right." His breath clouded in front of him on the single syllable. God, it was cold. How could these people just stand there talking like it wasn't fucking negative-five degrees out? And why hadn't he grabbed a hat when he left the flat? That had been a stupid mistake. At least he had his gloves.

"Our daughter's studying over here," the man added just as loudly as his wife, although, again, John hadn't asked. He was too busy worrying that his ears would freeze right off his head, even though he knew that was medically impossible until one got to far colder temperatures.

"We thought we'd come visit her in London before she bankrupts us with her school bills." The man laughed, as though he thought discussing personal financial difficulties with a perfect stranger was somehow appropriate or normal.

John managed to drag up a lame little smile and a sympathetic chuckle. "Right."

The man rambled on while John desperately looked for an exit strategy that wouldn't appear rude. He was pretty sure his jaw was freezing solid now, as well as his ears.

"Everything's so expensive over here. Have you noticed that? I had a hamburger last night that cost me twenty-four _bucks_! I tell ya, I shouldn't have figured out the conversion, you know? I'd'a been better off not knowing. And pint of beer? Damn! Must be cheaper in Ireland, huh?" he went on in an attempt at a conspiratorial tone that could still be heard some twenty feet away. "Otherwise how could they all be such heavy drinkers? Am I right?" Again the laugh, but now accompanying an incredibly inappropriate joke.

This time all John could manage was a tiny nod. "Right." His ears were like ice, but they still worked well enough to understand every word the Americans said--more was the pity. "Well, uh--"

"Our daughter's studying at LAMDA," the woman went on. "That's a theatre school," she added quickly, "Not a gay school. Lambda, you know?" She chuckled nervously.

"Right." Did she listen to herself when she spoke? Surely not.

Perhaps John had the sort of face that made Americans want to spill their life stories to him, although he couldn't remember experiencing the phenomenon before. Maybe it was simply a Wisconsinite (Wisconsinan? Wisconsinian?) foible that caused them to over-share. Either way, he desperately needed to get out of this conversation and into some place warm.

"You have a beautiful city here," she went on, and whether she was trying to cover her faux-pas or just making idle conversation while John's ears slowly numbed in the bitter December wind, he couldn't decide.

The man nodded. "Expensive as hell, but beautiful. If you can ignore all the construction and giant cranes, that is. City this old must be under reconstruction all the time. Am I right?"

Like a gift from heaven, John's mobile rang at that moment. "Excuse me." He pulled the phone from his coat pocket and gave the couple an apologetic look. "Good luck finding your way."

They didn't seem at all affronted by his friendly dismissal. "Oh sure!" the woman exclaimed, waving a hand in the air and smiling, still apparently unaffected by the bitter chill. "Thanks for your help. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," echoed John. He waited until they'd turned, consulted their map, pointed, and headed back to the tube station before answering his phone. It was warm against his nearly numb ear. "Hallo?"

"Where are you?" Sherlock's buttery voice was a balm after the shouting Wisconsinners.

"On my way home. I just have to wait for the next train." The one _after_ the train the couple would, hopefully, take. Heaven help him if they ended up in the same car.

"Meet me in Piccadilly instead."

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions. It's Christmas."

That was promising. Sherlock's surprises weren't always pleasant, but when John's flatmate added the holiday to the mix, chances were good that whatever he had in mind did not involve refrigerated body parts or things in Petri dishes. It didn't rule out those things, mind you, but it did improve the odds.

"Okay. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Bring me a hat."


End file.
